


Nobody Mess with Me Tonight

by transfixeddream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-17
Updated: 2011-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transfixeddream/pseuds/transfixeddream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean ends up on the receiving end of some punches and Sam fixes him up.</p><p>Also posted <a href="http://transfixeddream.livejournal.com/87545.html">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody Mess with Me Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Pinch-hit for i_o_r_h_a_e_l at spn_j2_xmas, focusing on her likes of hurt!Dean, protective!Sam, and Dean!centric.

Sam's sitting on the motel bed by the time Dean makes it in, nose stuck in a book. Of _course_ Sam has his nose in a book--these days he's either being an emo bitch, or rereading Oliver Twist or whatever; sometimes he'll even show off his multi-tasking skills and do both at the same time. The one he's reading now must be a good one, considering he doesn't so much as glance at Dean when he presses the door shut with his shoulder.

Much as Dean wants to say he's walking slower because he's drunk off his ass and not because the asshole got in a couple of nice hits, he can't. He's only halfway to his bed when he grunts a little, more exhaustion than anything since the pain hasn't really set in yet, but that does it. Sam's eyes dart from his book to Dean, curiosity quickly morphing to panic. He drops the book and shoots off the bed, meets Dean halfway with worry spread all over his face.

"Jesus Christ, Dean, what the hell did you _do_?" he asks, hand coming up to touch Dean's face. It come out more like a demand, like Dean's his fifteen year old kid instead of his older brother, and Dean's just sore enough that he doesn't wanna put up with Sam's loudass voice--especially at this hour.

He swipes his tongue across the front of his teeth, still sticky with half-dried blood, and cringes. "Man, keep your voice down. Do I look like I'm up for Interrogation 101 right now?"

"You're such a jerk," Sam says instantly, but his voice is low as his eyes scrape across Dean's face. He presses his huge freaking fingers a little too close to Dean's shiner, and Dean stumbles back, swearing under his breath. Sam's hand is still in the air when he asks again, "What happened? Did Remy do this?"

Remy Bridges--forty-three, pencil thin and scared of his own shadow since getting attacked by a poltergeist. If his head wasn't pounding right now, Dean might be able to get a little offended that Sammy thinks he could get wrecked by a fucking headcase. He settles for a scoff, then grins shortly, bottom lip stinging as the thinly-covered gash splits open again with the pull. He digs his wallet out of his back pocket and thumbs through the bills, grabbing most of it and pressing the bundle down on the tiny motel table. He glances at Sam--wishes like hell he didn't have to start looking _up_ at him a couple months ago, ever since the tall bastard turned eighteen--then smirks when his brother frowns.

Sam spreads the greens with a deer in the headlights expression, and Dean ditches him to hunt for booze from their supply. He's looking in the mini-bar, frowning at the lack of anything resembling Johnnie and wincing at the way his battered body feels from this position, by the time Sam manages, "Dude, there's like a, a fucking _thousand_ dollars here. Tell me you didn't take this off of the _victim_ , Dean."

"Language, Sam," Dean says half-heartedly, shooting Sam a quick glance. "No, Remy kept his money--guy's got enough problems as it is, and I'm not that big of a dick. And there's only 'bout nine hundred. Li'l less, 'cause I figured I deserved a coupla Adams for my trouble."

Sam huffs a laugh, but he's still staring at the money. "Your _trouble_? Hustling a couple of guys out of their pay checks isn't exactly hard for you, Dean."

Shaking his head, Dean chuckles. He pops the cap off a bottle of beer and nudges the mini-bar shut with his toe. "No, man, see--there was just one." He chugs half the bottle, tasting blood and barley as he remembers the big bastard. "Only one guy. He was just really stupid. Fuckin' sucked cock at pool, dude--so bad he could've lost to you, even. That's how much he _sucked_. Kept thinkin' he'd win it back, so I didn't even have to hustle that much. Pride's a wonderful, wonderful thing, Sammy."

Sam makes a short noise that oozes pure self-righteousness, the bastard. "Yeah, Dean, I can see how wonderful it is all over your face."

"What, this?" Dean makes a show of tracing his face with his finger in the air, even though Sam's rifling through their supplies and not paying him attention. "Just a couple bruises, Sam, nothing serious; still got my good looks. 'Sides, his bruised ego's gonna hurt a lot more than my face by tomorrow." He looks up at the ceiling and presses his eyes shut as a sudden throb hits him hard. The lights are suddenly too bright as the last of the adrenaline from kicking that beefy fucker's ass fades and is replaced with searing pain. He groans, can't help it, and wishes like hell he could locate the bed right now.

"Yeah, sure it will," Sam says, voice thin as if Dean's just proving his point now. Then, voice closer, "Here, gimme your hand. This should help with the headache." Dean shoves his hand out, not willing to open his eyes again, and Sam scatters a couple pills into his palm, then releases an exasperated breath when Dean tosses them back with a pull of beer. "You're not supposed to--"

Dean cuts his brother off with an irritated hum that sounds weird coming from him; these days Sam's the pissy fucker who'll silence anybody with one short huff.

He feels Sam's fingers dig into his bicep, hell of a lot softer than anything he's felt tonight but it hurts the same. Sam's voice is in his ear then, low and soothing. "Hey, come on, man, let's get you to the bed."

"'M not an invalid, Sam," Dean says, even as Sam's taking the nearly empty beer from him. His voice sounds sharper than intended, but he honestly can't tell if it's just the pain playing tricks on him or not. Still, Sam tugs on him a little and he goes willingly, walking until his knees brush against the side of the bed.

"Okay, sit on the edge," Sam says, and then his fingers are gone from Dean's arm.

Dean sits gingerly on the bed, hands locking around the sheets. He opens his eyes cautiously, kind of surprised that Sam's already shut out the light. His brother's digging through their first aid stuff again and Dean watches as he does so, focusing on the thin strip of skin between his shirt and jeans, highlighted by the dull red of the vacancy sign outside the window. Sam's been working out for months now, started not long after his last growth spurt made him all six foot five of beanpole, and it's working--he looks good.

Dean wets his lips and tastes the dull tang of copper as Sam rises from his squatting position, holding a bottle of peroxide in one hand and a bag of cotton swabs in the other. He's not sure why he does it, but he glances at the table he set the money on and sees that it's bare. He raises an eyebrow, even though his head throbs painfully even with this little excursion, and says, "So, I win the money, get beat up for my efforts, and you pocket it, hm? Sounds fair."

Sam snorts and shakes his head, but doesn't say anything. Instead, he brings a chair over and sets it right in front of Dean and then goes behind him. A second later there's a snick and the room's lit with a dull glow from a lamp as Sam sits on the chair, supplies still in hand. Dean rolls his eyes.

"Dude, the guy gave me a fat lip, it's not like a werewolf chewed my arm off or anything. Don't need you goin' all mother hen on me, Sammy," Dean grumbles. Getting cut up on a hunt is one thing, but getting into a bar fight--if that dude's attempt at teaching him a lesson could even be _called_ a bar fight? He doesn't need any damn care except for maybe a coupla pills and a drink.

"Alright," Sam says, ignoring Dean's protest as he uncaps the bottle. He shoots Dean a quick look before pulling out a swab, practically daring him to say anything. "Stick your lip out."

Sighing, Dean opens his mouth a little and juts his bottom lip out, mostly because he doesn't want to argue with the big baby.

"Shit," Sam says as he leans in. It's a split lip, swollen a little maybe--Dean can't be sure--but Sam's looking at it like he's been mauled or something, face scrunching up tight. "I hope you kicked his ass at least." He places the cotton on the opening of the bottle and tips it quickly then back, before pressing it to the cut.

Dean hisses. "Ha, little too late for that, Sam. Should've _seen_ him after I was done, man. No pay check's gonna be the least of his worries." He says it between breaths; half-grinning, half-wincing because he's used to getting hit but antiseptic will never not fucking _burn_.

Sam practically sighs with relief at the reassurance and somehow that makes all the difference--relieves Dean, too. "Don't care," Sam says. "Hitting you? I would've killed him."

Dean swallows, because there's no doubt in his mind that Sam means that. Still, it doesn't stop him from shooting off a quick, "You wanna defend my honor, Sam?" that his brother ignores.

"Okay, done," Sam says a few moments later. "Any other places I need to know about? Not like that, you perv," he adds, after Dean smirks in response.

Dean shakes his head and touches the tips of his fingers to the cut on his lip. "Nah, I'm good."

It's not good enough for Sam, because his hand touches Dean's ribcage. "What about your ribs--do you think they're broke or, or fractured? Here, let me see your hand--"

"Sam! Listen to me. I'm okay, I'm tired, and I just want to sleep. I promise that if I had anything broken I'd tell you, okay? I appreciate the concern but I'm _fine_. You've seen me a lot worse."

Sam blinks and nods mutely. "Right, yeah, just--I don't know. Sorry, I guess." He sets the stuff on the nightstand and pushes the chair away from the bed, leaves it in the middle of the room and turns his attention back to Dean. "Okay, get your clothes off."

Dean raises an eyebrow--notes pleasantly that there's much less pain since the last time he tried it--and says, "Right down to business, huh, Sam?"

Snorting, Sam steps forward. "Right, Dean, like you'd be any good when you're passed out ten seconds from now."

For the first time since Dean got back from the bar--hell, maybe for the first time this week--Sam smiles. It's small, but it's there, and all Dean wants to say is, _You've gotta smile more, Sammy_. Instead, he huffs a breath and says, "I'm _always_ good, ugly."

Sam hums in response and pulls off his shirt, and Dean takes a moment to appreciate all the muscles that are starting to grow since Sam upped his routine. No matter what he might tell him to his face, Dean's pretty sure Sam's always going to be the hottest thing he's ever seen. Also possibly the cockiest--next to himself--judging by the smirk that's growing on Sam's face after catching Dean's stare.

"You need some help with that, Dean?" Sam's already shucked off his jeans while Dean was staring at his chest, and now he's just looking like an amused and superior bastard.

Dean scowls and tugs off his shirt, ignoring the minor flare of pain as he stretches his arms, then tugs off his jeans. He should probably brush his teeth, or at least piss because otherwise he'll have to get up in the middle of the night, but he crawls under the covers instead, turns his ass to Sam and shuts his eyes.

It's not really surprising when he feels the bed shift as Sam climbs on, chest pressing against Dean's back as Sam throws an arm around his waist and tries to pull him in closer.

"Dude, I don't need to be cuddled," he says, only it comes out half-hearted, because--well. Dean's kind of sore still, and Sam's body is warm, and they're in fucking Utah in February, so. "Definitely don't needa be the small spoon, either."

Sam hums in response, just like any other time he wants to disregard everything Dean says. For a long moment it's completely silent, and if Sam didn't snore like a grizzly Dean might think he's already fallen asleep. Then,

"Dean?"

"Mm?"

"You. You really shouldn't--" Sam sighs, and Dean can feel the hot air against his nape, making his body tingle. "Hustling, there's good money in it but--don't go overboard, okay? Keep a limit so you don't get your ass handed to you, no matter how tempting it might be." He leans up and presses his bony chin against Dean's shoulder, pushing down hard. It's annoying more than it really hurts, but Dean doesn't much care either way right now.

Normally, Dean would say something like, _Aw, Sammy, I didn't know you cared,_ or, _Dude, I'm not that fucking stupid, I know how to hustle, way more than you at least,_ or even, _Handed_ his _ass to him, Sam--was the other way around, nothin' to worry about._ But Sam sounds deadly serious and Dean doesn't think he deserves a smartass answer right now, so he just says, "Yeah. Sure thing, Sammy."

Dean didn't think Sam was tense, but when his brother practically deflates at those words, he realizes just how bad Sam was. "Good," is all Sam says, and then he's putting his head back on the pillow and tightening his grip on Dean's waist.

Sam's snoring less than a minute later, pressed up tight against Dean's back, a soft rumble of breathing that knocks Dean out not long after.


End file.
